


Pigment

by AgentCoop



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Also they are friends, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Because Nicky and Neil friendship is the best, Body Worship, M/M, Nicky and Neil are art students, Painting, artist!neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28793850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: Andrew steps forward, and now Neil’s heart is beating hard against the cage of his chest because this is Andrew. This is what Andrew does.“You have paint on your face.” Andrew presses a thumb to Neil’s cheekbone. He’s still for a second, eyes fixed firmly on Neil’s eyes, then his thumb slowly brushes from cheek to ear.Neil swallows hard. He’s still holding the paintbrush and for a second, everything narrows down to the sound of Andrew’s breathing. Neil blinks. Then he reaches up and draws a line of brown across Andrew’s nose.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 56
Kudos: 432





	Pigment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bazerella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazerella/gifts).



> Hey all! This is a gift-fic for [Bazerella](https://twitter.com/bazerella)  
> who gave me the incredible prompt of Andrew's "What were you hoping for, coordinates?" line leading to Neil painting on his body.
> 
> Also, big thanks to [AJ](https://twitter.com/madlikealynx)  
> for giving me the down low on all things art and making sure I didn't say anything completely ridiculous regarding paint ;)
> 
> I had so much fun writing this :) Comments and kudos fuel me, and hope you all enjoy <3

The painting is wrong.

Neil sits back on the table and pulls one leg to his chest, studying the canvas with a frown. The acrylics studio has been abandoned for hours, but Neil’s still here, still covered in paint, frustration mounting with every breath he takes.

It’s wrong.

The colors are there–warm sepias, browns, umbers, and a smudge of cerulean–but the shape isn’t emerging the way it is supposed to.

Which sucks, because it’s the final project, and it’s due in five days.

“Hey! Angst-boy!”

Neil tears his eyes away from the failed painting and gives Nicky a half-hearted wave. “Class out already?”

“Professor got pissy that no one could answer some bizarre question about gouache saturation, threw a tantrum, then stalked out of the room. Ergo!” Nicky gestures towards himself and flashes a bright smile. “I came to bother you!” He walks over and heaves himself up on the table, twirling his legs around until he’s sitting right next to Neil. “You’re looking especially broody today. What’s up?”

Nicky is all legs, and arms, and thick down parka, and Neil wrinkles his nose and scoots to the left. “I am covered in paint.”

“I know,” Nicky says, completely oblivious to the fact that there is now a smear of acrylic down the side of his coat. He leans forward and studies the painting. “You used too much brown.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“Mmm. Well, in the words of my color theory professor, you should give up painting and stick to drawing.”

“Thank you.”

“Just wanted to spread the love!”

Neil sighs, then presses his forehead against his knee and tangles his fingers in his hair. “This sucks.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s awful.”

“No, it’s really–”

“Cut the crap. It’s awful. I’m not committed, I’ve got five days, maybe I’ll just start over.”

Nicky nudges against him for a second and Neil lifts his head just enough to glare.

“You’re going to need one hell of a muse to pull off a final project in five days.”

Harsh, but he’s right. “Fuck, I don’t know,” Neil groans. “This though?” He waves his hand towards the sullen, blotchy canvas. “Not a passing grade.”

“Just say that you were madly struck by the way mud can shape man, that man can shape mud, that you wanted to explore the golem fable, that the stripe of cerulean is nothing but an allegory.”

“An allegory for what?”

“Umm. Golems?”

Rolling his eyes, Neil wipes his hands on his overalls again, leaving another streak of sand-brown. “Thanks.”

“Come on. Leave it for now. It’s half-off mojito night at Isalita, if we leave now, we can be plastered by nine.”

Neil’s eyebrows rise.

“Okay, if we leave now, I can be plastered by nine, and you can have your obligatory half a drink, then walk me back to my apartment.”

“Sounds like an absolute blast.”

“Sounds better than sitting here and staring at your mud painting.”

Shooting Nicky a withering glare, Neil pushes himself off the table and wanders over to the sink. “Sorry, I’m gonna pass tonight.”

“Neil–”

“I really need to focus on this. It’s...” His voice falls, and Nicky’s looking at him with some mixture of pity and disappointment. Neil scowls at him. “You knew I wasn’t going to say yes.”

“Well...I mean...first time for everything?”

“Sorry.”

“Alright.” Nicky swings easily off the table, produces a hat from one of the many large pockets of his parka, and snugs it on top of his head. “Text if you change your mind?”

“Sure,” Neil murmurs, already looking the painting again, staring it down like maybe it will just magically fix itself.

It doesn’t.

He chews on his lower lip. It’s not the brown that’s wrong, it’s the cerulean, because this isn’t a painting about blue. It’s a painting about sand, and gasoline, and what it means to lose everything. The blue needs to be red, and he knows that, but even thinking about changing makes his throat tighten up. Neil squeezes his eyes closed, and doesn’t even notice when Nicky leaves.

***

He’s still there hours later when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The blue now smudges into the surrounding brown pigment, a gaping wound across the canvas. Neil wipes his hands against his paint splattered overalls, pulls his phone from his pocket and nudges it open with his nose.

 **Andrew:** _Hey_

One word.

Andrew.

Neil grins as he types back, leaving splotches of paint against the buttons on his phone.

 **Neil:** Studio

One word.

Neil.

This thing between them isn’t something new, but Neil still swallows down anticipation every time he presses send. Sometimes Andrew answers. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes Andrew wants to be near him. Sometimes he doesn’t.

Neil leaves the phone on the table and goes back to studying the canvas. It’s only five minutes before the door to the studio opens with a shuddering gasp, sticking on the old linoleum flooring like it always does. He doesn’t look up, because he doesn’t need to. Andrew is the eye of a hurricane, and Neil can feel his presence without turning around.

“Hey.” Andrew’s voice is a grunt, a single syllable barely escaping his lips, same as his text message.

Nose wrinkling, Neil paints one last stroke against the canvas. Then he turns around and sets the brushes on the table. “Thought you had a final?”

Andrew’s mouth is set in an unimpressed line. He sticks his hands in his pockets and leans against the table closest to the door. “I had a final at 7. It’s almost midnight.”

Shit. Neil looks up at the round clock at the wall.

“You have a phone.”

“Yeah, I…” Neil casts a glance at the old flip phone laying on the table. “I didn’t check the time.”

“Artist life.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Hey, come here? Come look at this.”

Andrew pushes off the table and stalks forward. He’s all hard lines, and angles–dark fitted t-shirt, dark jacket, dark jeans. Neil can see the outline of his cigarette pack in his pocket. Some people think Andrew looks dangerous. Unapproachable.

Neil thinks Andrew looks a little bit like an asshole. (This is a fact he’s mentioned more than once, and every time, Andrew just huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost not.)

“What am I looking at?”

Sighing, Neil chews at the end of the paintbrush he’s holding–the one coated in the brown ochre, not brown sepia, brown, brown, brown. “I don’t even know. Just..do you feel anything? Does it do anything?”

Andrew’s eyebrow arches, then he looks back at Neil and shrugs. “I’m not an artist.”

“Obviously. Study it like you study whatever criminal justice bullshit and tell me if it means anything to you.”

Andrew’s eyebrow quirks, but crosses his arms and leans against the table, right next to Neil, close enough that their shoulders are brushing against each other, close enough that their thighs are touching. Neil swallows. “I just mean–”

“It’s lonely.”

Neil cocks his head. Andrew’s still staring at the painting, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He’s so still that Neil can see his pulse fluttering at his throat. Sometimes, back at the apartment, back where it’s dark and quiet and no one else can see, he presses his lips right there. Sometimes Andrew snarls against his mouth but doesn’t pull away. Sometimes Neil does it again.

“What’s the blue for?”

Neil blinks, then turns back to the painting. “Oh. Umm. Honestly? Fuck, this makes me a shitty artist. I don’t know. It just felt right.” It’s not right. He knows that now. Amateurs paint based on feeling. Artists paint with at least a _little_ foresight. Neil buries his face in his hands and groans. “Fuck.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything.

He’s screwed. He’s so fucking screwed. Five days and...no. Four days now because it’s already after midnight. And he has to pull a final project out of his ass–a project that was supposed to take the entire semester. All because he got a stupid fucking idea to bring his past into the art because personal art is successful art or some bullshit, and then he didn’t commit, and now he’s got a half-assed representation of a beach, but no flames because the thought of painting red over the brown made him sick. Neil presses the heels of his hands into his eyes _hard_.

This is stupid.

“Need a break?”

Neil squeezes his eyes closed and takes a deep breath, then sits up again. Andrew’s no longer watching the painting, now he’s watching Neil with intense golden eyes. They’re close enough that Neil can see the spatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “I–”

Andrew steps forward, and now Neil’s heart is beating hard against the cage of his chest because this is Andrew. This is what Andrew does.

“You have paint on your face.” Andrew presses a thumb to Neil’s cheekbone. He’s still for a second, eyes fixed firmly on Neil’s eyes, then his thumb slowly brushes from cheek to ear.

Neil swallows hard. He’s still holding the paintbrush and for a second, everything narrows down to the sound of Andrew’s breathing. Neil blinks. Then he reaches up and draws a line of brown across Andrew’s nose. “Now we’re even.”

(He’s a little bit of an asshole too.)

***

It’s later, in the dark of Neil’s apartment with Andrew’s lips pressed against his own, that Neil no longer thinks of beaches, or blood, or fire, or death. Here, there is nothing but Andrew–the taut skin at the back of his neck, the softness just behind his ear, the line of his jaw, sharp as a knife.

This has been going on long enough that Neil knows the feel of Andrew’s stubble rubbing against his cheek, he knows the way Andrew’s breath puffs hot against his own neck.

Sometimes, when it’s daylight, Andrew says “this is nothing.”

Sometimes, when it’s daylight, Andrew says “I hate you.”

Neil knows better.

Neil’s on his back, Andrew’s moving on top of him, and the grey of Neil’s comforter blends in with the fuzzy darkness of everything else. It’s a full moon night, and even though Neil’s blinds are closed, there’s a line of light that slices diagonally across Andew’s shoulder blades.

Andrew tucks his head down and kisses against the spot on Neil’s cheek, right where the smudge of paint had been. “You’re a mess.”

Neil swallows hard and wraps a hand around the back of Andrew’s neck, kissing him as hard as he can. “I showered,” he murmurs against Andrew’s lips.

“You’re always a mess.”

“You like it.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything, just reaches up, wraps fingers around Neil’s wrist and tugs until Neil’s palm is pressed against Andrew’s stomach, fingers low enough to push underneath the button of Andrew’s jeans.

Andrew slots his knee between Neil’s legs and kisses him again. Neil can taste the cigarette he smoked ten minutes ago, as well as the cinnamon gum he chewed right after. He can smell Andrew’s aftershave, something orange, and spice, and vaguely pine. Andrew is quiet, and Neil is mostly quiet but now he’s breathing hard enough that it’s breaking the silence of the room.

Andrew’s fingers tap against Neil’s wrist, and he murmurs “yes,” against Neil’s lips.

This? Andrew letting Neil touch him?

Sometimes this is dangerous.

Neil pushes underneath the waistband of Andrew’s briefs, brushing softly against skin, and Andrew fists fingers through Neil’s hair and nudges Neil’s head to the side, and noses against the curve of Neil’s collarbone, and opens his mouth until Neil can feel his teeth against skin.

Neil’s slow, but he intimately knows the desperate sound Andrew makes right before everything is not okay, right when he’s about to shake apart. Neil freezes, fingers splayed out, palm still pressed against the rigid muscle of Andrew’s abdomen.

“Stop.” Andrew's voice is a jagged thing, gravelly and raw. Sometimes, all it takes is a moment for this to pass. A jagged inhalation. A nod of Andrew’s head.

Not tonight.

Andrew pulls away, carding a hand through his hair. He’s nothing but a silhouette, but Neil can see the way his throat moves as he swallows. Andrew stands up. Buttons his jeans. Slips out of the room before Neil can catch his breath.

Neil swallows hard, then collapses back on his bed with a sigh. He lets Andrew go because he knows better than to follow, but he hates it. Running his hand through his hair, Neil finally pushes himself back off the bed, grabs his sweatshirt and shrugs into it. He waits until he hears the water cut on in the kitchen, then wanders down the hallway.

“Hey.”

Andrew’s already got a beer open, and he takes a long swallow of it before turning to face Neil. “I have another final in the morning.”

“I know.”

Andrew looks like he wants to say something else. He opens his mouth, hesitates for only a second, then gulps down the rest of the beer. “See you tomorrow.” 

Then he leaves.

Sometimes, this is how things go.

Sometimes, Neil wonders if all he needs to do is murmur “stay.”

***

The door of the studio bangs open and Nicky comes striding in, all energy and pep and puppy-dog happiness. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep here last night!”

Neil cocks his head. “I didn’t.”

“You’re wearing the baggy sweatpant/t-shirt combo you keep stashed in your locker. And you have bags under your eyes. And you look terrible.”

“Sometimes I bring that baggy sweatpant/t-shirt combo home to wash it. And thanks.”

Nicky just smiles, then claps a hand against Neil’s back and pulls him in for a hug. “It looks better today!”

He’s looking at the painting–the one that now has eight more layers of brown and around the one streak of blue and still looks _wrong_.

“It doesn’t.”

“No...it does. I thought you were giving it up and starting over?”

Neil sighs, then grabs a towel and starts cleaning the largest of his brushes. “I was. I think it’s fixable, though. I know what I need to do, I just don’t want to do it.” He knows what he needs to do, but it involves the color red, as well as certain memories that up until this week, he’d done a fantastic job of pushing down. His throat closes up for a second, it’s getting hard to breathe, and for a single moment, Neil swears he can smell gasoline. He blinks, then tears his eyes away from the canvas again and looks back down at the brush.

“Well, I’m sure it will work out,” Nicky says. “Oh! I totally passed my color theory class!”

“The one where the prof told you to quit?”

“The one and only!”

“How’d you manage that?”

Nicky winked at him. “Sucked him off behind the desk.”

Neil just shakes his head and picks up the next paintbrush. Nicky’s kidding. He thinks Nicky’s kidding. He _hopes_ Nicky’s kidding. “If anyone asks, I don’t know you.”

“Maybe you could do the same for acrylics. Sidle up. Flutter those gorgeous eyelashes. Get down on your knees.”

“Right.”

Shrugging, Nicky leans against the table and scratches at the back of his neck. “Can’t hurt to try. Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow, right? Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

“To your house in South Carolina to spend Christmas with you and your boyfriend and be a perpetual third wheel? I’m okay, thanks.”

Nicky gives him a woeful, sad stare. “Neil, are you seriously going to spend Christmas alone?”

Neil’s going to spend Christmas trying not to have a complete meltdown and failing spectacularly, which is something he can do without other people around. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he wipes his paint stained fingers on his pants, then pulls it out.

 **Andrew:** _Busy?_

“Won’t be alone,” Neil murmurs, quickly texting back.

 **Neil:** _Not really_

“Okay, but...you’ll kind of be alone. I just...hey, I know this time of year you get kind of squirrely. Just...consider it?”

Neil gets more than kind of squirrely. As far as Nicky’s aware, Neil’s familial _issues_ happened some time around December, but he doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know what it feels like when your hands are coated in blood while you drag your mother’s body out from a burning car.

 _Buzz_.

 **Andrew:** _Not really, or no_

 **Neil:** _No_

“Earth to Neil?”

Neil looks up and Nicky is watching him with a rueful grin. “You know, you never used that phone until Andrew. I texted you constantly and you never picked up. I _called_ you constantly and you never picked up.

“To be fair, you’re a lot more annoying than he is.”

“Hey!” Nicky throws up his arms and sways dramatically. “Insulting, my friend. I’ll have you know that I am widely regarded as the friendliest art major on this campus!”

“Yeah, your color theory professor mentioned.”

Nicky bursts out laughing, and Neil’s phone buzzes again.

 **Andrew:** _It’s snowing_

 **Neil** : _And?_

 **Andrew:** _Everyone else seems excited about it._

“Hey, is it snowing?” Neil asks, looking up at Nicky.

Nicky’s watching him, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed as though he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Why?”

Shrugging, Neil looks back at his phone. “Just trying to figure out if Andrew is fucking with me.”

 **Neil:** _Final?_

 **Andrew:** _Done. How much paint is on your face right now?_

Neil feels himself start to grin.

“Holy shit,” Nicky says.

 **Neil:** _Come here and find out._

He closes his phone and looks at Nicky. “What?”

“Holy shit,” Nicky repeats. “You aren’t going to be alone because you’re going to be with _Andrew_. You’re in love with him.”

Heat rushes to Neil’s cheeks as he pushes his phone back in his pocket. “That’s not...this isn’t that.” It’s not. It’s nothing. Andrew says it’s nothing, and Neil is a mess, and together, they are a disaster. This is definitely not...that. Neil blinks. He’s been making it on less than four hours of sleep a night all week and his brain seems to be short circuiting. Definitely the sleep thing. He should get...more.

“You are absolutely in love with him. Jesus christ, Neil, Andrew is...I mean...he’s my cousin, I’m obligated to love him at least a little but you realize that he’s...I mean...he doesn’t...you guys kind of just grunt at each other with single words and I–”

“This conversation has been enlightening, to say the least. I need to go, though.”

“To meet my cousin who you are definitely not in love with?”

“Maybe.” Neil packs up his paintbrushes, then works on wrapping up the canvas. If it really is snowing, this is not the ideal time to be bringing it back to his apartment, but he thinks better there, and he’s down to four days, and the thought of using the red in a communal space where anyone might walk in and watch him have a full on nervous break down makes him nauseous.

Nicky grabs ahold of the paints and brushes and helps Neil out the door and down the stairs, all the while chatting aimlessly about Eric, and how he knew right away, and love is love is love, and doesn’t Neil just want to scream it out loud to people sometimes.

Neil does not. This is not love, this is nothing.

Maybe.

They push out to the sidewalk, and it really is snowing, and also, Andrew is there, leaning against his stupid-expensive car, smoking a cigarette and watching Neil with hooded eyes.

Thankfully, _that_ makes Nicky shut up.

“Why are you here?” Neil asks.

“Rude,” Nicky stage whispers in his ear.

Andrew takes a final drag of his cigarette, then drops it to the snow. “Because you’re a junkie for masochism.”

Neil shoots him a confused look.

“The final,” Andrew says, motioning towards the canvas that Neil’s gripping tightly against himself. “You work better at the apartment. You have four days. You’ll probably spend all four pacing the apartment, muttering like a crazy person, and smearing paint on a board. Masochist. Figured you could use a ride.”

Nicky let out a stupid noise that sounds a little like _awwwww_. Neil pins him with a glare, then shuffles forward and gets the canvas settled in the back of Andrew’s car.

“It’s called canvas.”

“A board,” Andrew confirms.

Neil rolls his eyes, then grabs his paints and brushes from Nicky, who pulls him into another hug and whispers something ridiculous about love in his ear before darting off diwn the sidewalk, all bounding puppy-dog energy.

Andrew just shakes his head, then climbs back into the car.

It’s only a three minute drive to Neil’s apartment, and Neil tries to keep up some sort of witty banter but by minute two, his mouth goes gummy, and his throat feels raw. Tonight is going to be the bad kind of night. He can already feel tendrils of panic curling deep in his stomach and threatening to creep up further. Once they get to the apartment, Andrew helps him haul everything up, then helps push back the couch and chair, then watches as Neil sets up in the middle of the living room.

“I can leave,” he finally says, as Neil begins squeezing out paint.

“You don’t have to.” He doesn’t want Andrew to leave, but he’s afraid to ask him to stay.

Luckily, Andrew has a sixth sense for Neil’s impending panic attacks, and so he settles on the floor, back pressed against the corner of the room, one knee pulled to his chest, one leg splayed out in front of him.

“It’s your mom?”

Neil squeezes his eyes closed.

He’s in his apartment.

There’s the faint hum of music from the guy who lives downstairs, the lights are on, snow is falling outside.

Andrew’s sitting in the corner.

He’s in his apartment.

There’s left over Chinese food in his fridge and day-old coffee in his coffee pot and it’s all _his_.

Andrew’s sitting in the corner.

He’s in his apartment.

“Neil.” Andrew snaps his fingers, and Neil’s eyes flick open again.

It’s just a painting. It’s not real. “Sorry,” Neil murmurs. “I’m fine.”

Andrew snorts from the corner. “Sure.”

Neil gives him a sick kind of grin, then turns back to the painting.

He carefully works at the blue, using alcohol and a putty knife to lift all of it but a single, jagged line from the canvas. Then he paints in red.

It’s fire, it’s flame, it’s blood, it’s paint that smells like cigarette smoke, and burning rubber, and salt water. The seatbelt tore her flesh away when he pulled it, and maybe that’s what the line down the middle is, or maybe it’s the crack in his own facade, or maybe Nicky was right after all and he should have just bullshitted this entire project.

At least that wouldn’t have been painful.

It’s hours later before he stops. Neil rubs a hand across his brow, then sits back on his knees. Andrew is behind him still, silent, steady, and _real_.

The painting is in front of him.

He doesn’t know if it’s going to be good enough for a passing grade. He doesn’t know if it’s ever going to mean anything to anyone but himself.

Andrew clears his throat. “Junkie.”

Neil tries to smile, but it feels cracked and wrong on his face. He doesn’t want to look at this anymore, but it’s all still wet, shiny in the overhead light. He can’t cover it, so he’ll have sleep knowing it’s there. Andrew pushes himself up from the corner and walks over. He crouches down in front of Neil, then reaches out and cups his hands to Neil’s cheeks.

His palms are warm, and Neil is trapped, unable to look away.

“Wake up, Neil Josten.”

Neil takes in a single, strangled breath, then lets it out again. “Sometimes…” he starts. “Sometimes this isn’t enough.”

He’s not sure what he means, but Andrew nods anyway.

“I needed to get rid of it. The memory. The guilt. I don’t know, it’s fucking stupid.” Neil chews his lower lip, but Andrew stays still, eyes intense gold in the light of the living room. “If I lose myself in a project, then I lose time. You know? I don’t have to think about anything else. And sometimes that’s good. Other times…” he holds up a hand that’s coated in reds–burnt umber, cadmium, red ochre, crimson. “It hurts.”

There’s a long moment of stillness between them, then Andrew lets go and holds a hand to Neil’s, pressing palm to palm. His hand comes away stained with paint.

Red.

“I–”

Andrew presses forward, kissing so hard his lips bruise. Neil kisses back, hands still held up and away because acrylic doesn’t go with leather, and Andrew’s jacket is nice, it probably costs more than Neil’s monthly rent, but Andrew wraps his paint covered hand around the back of Neil’s neck and pulls him even closer.

Neil wants to touch him. He wants to run his hands along the hard lines of Andrew’s body, he wants to brush his fingers across the sharp curve of Andrew’s collarbone down to his hips, down further, and further, he wants to forget–

He chokes off a groan, and Andrew keeps kissing him, but shrugs out of his jacket, then reaches down towards the hem of his shirt and works it off.

It’s more than Neil usually sees, and he pulls back for a second, watching Andrew.

“What,” Andrew growls. “Were you hoping for coordinates?”

Neil grins, then he surges forward, pressing a palm against Andrew’s chest until Andrew is lying on the floor and Neil is over him, kissing him, tracing a paint-slick finger down the hard planes of Andrew’s abdomen and leaving a trail of red.

It’s already drying fast, fading from red to brown. Neil smiles against the curve of Andrew’s neck and presses a finger against his collarbone, drawing another line of fading red all the way across his arm.

Andrew gives a little snarl and nudges against Neil’s throat. “I’m not your _board_.”

“Canvas,” Neil murmurs with a grin. He reaches out, trapping Andrew’s wrist in his hand for a second before letting go, leaving a red thumbprint right over the small of Andrew’s wrist. It’s right where his pulse lies.

Andrew pushes up, kissing Neil again like there’s nothing else left in the universe. Then his hands are at Neil’s sweatpants, pushing the band of them all the way down. “You can,” he growls against Neil’s lips, and that’s all Neil needs to work the button of Andrew’s jeans open and press paint covered fingers underneath.

Andrew doesn’t say stop.

Andrew doesn’t pull away.

They’re fast, and they’re frantic, and it’s only minutes before both are spilling–Neil with a tiny, shuddering gasp, Andrew with one hand still wrapped around the back of Neil’s neck, eyes squeezed closed against Neil’s cheek.

Andrew wipes his hand against Neil’s sweatpants, then rolls out from under Neil’s arms. “Shower,” he grunts.

Neil follows.

***

The snow is still falling, enormous fluffy flakes that get caught in Andrew’s eyelashes as he leans over the deck railing with his cigarette.

“You have paint on your ear,” Neil says, stepping up next to him. He holds out a hand, and Andrew passes the cigarette over wordlessly, then rubs at his ear.

Neil takes a long drag, then blows it slowly out, watching the way the smoke mixes with the snow in swirling eddies. “I'm fine.”

“Don’t start that,” Andrew mutters.

Sighing, Neil passes the cigarette back and turns, back against the railing. “This?” he says, watching Andrew carefully. “Isn’t nothing.”

Andrew grunts, then rubs at his ear again. There’s still a splotch of paint there, but it’s dried brown now, splotchy against his skin. “Do you miss her?”

Neil swallows hard. Once, a long, long time ago, they’d played truths. Back and forth, knifing at each other, trying to be the first to draw blood. Now there was only trust. Andrew knew everything.

“Sometimes,” Neil admits “I know I shouldn’t. She wasn’t a good mom.”

Andrew nods. “But it still hurts.”

“It still hurts,” Neil echoes.

Inside, the canvas is drying.

Outside, the night is cloudy, the snow is blowing, and Neil can hear the steady murmur of music from the row of bars up the street.

“This isn’t nothing,” Andrew says, breaking the silence.

A small smile plays at Neil’s lips, but he pushes it back down. “Good.”

Andrew smokes the cigarette down to the filter, tosses it, and lights up another. They stand there long after Neil’s fingers go numb from cold.

***

He passes the class.

He doesn’t get an A–he barely squeaks by with a C–but it’s mostly because he freezes up during the presentation and can’t manage to give a rundown of his process, let alone a reason or theme for any of the project.

Neil’s phone buzzes early the next morning, and he rolls over to grab it from the dresser.

**Nicky:** _How did it go?_

Neil frowns at his phone.

 **Neil:** _Do you have nothing better to do than to text me about my finals?_

 **Nicky:** _That’s what friends do, Neil. Care about each other. So? Final_?

 **Neil:** _Passed_.

 **Nicky:** _Thank god. I was going to absolutely die if you had to take that class over again and leave me to face the upper level paint gods alone._

 **Neil:** _The absolute tragedy_

 **Nicky:** _Is Andrew there?_

Neil pauses. He can hear Andrew in the kitchen, making coffee with the shitty coffee maker that Neil never washes. Andrew keeps telling him to replace it because it’s crap, and Neil keeps telling him it’s fine, it will last another five years because it will.

His phone buzzes again.

 **Nicky:** _I’m glad you’re not alone._

Neil texts back a thumbs up because sometimes Nicky says things and Neil doesn’t know how to respond.

He’s got paint underneath his fingernails, because he always has paint underneath his fingernails, but this time it’s green.

New project. This one with no red.

Neil rolls out of bed, wriggles into his sweatshirt, then pads down the hall to find Andrew waiting for him, two mugs of coffee sitting out on the counter. “Morning,” Neil says.

Andrew wraps a hand around the back of Neil’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. “Coffee,” he grunts against Neil’s lips.

One word.

Andrew.

“Thanks,” Neil says.

One word.

Neil.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat!  
> Follow me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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